The boy was as pale as the sheet that covered him. The smells of blood and singed flesh hung in the air. For a moment, Bram feared the worst had happened, and this new day would mean the boy’s death on his conscience.
“He’ll live.” Dawes stood in the opposite entry, filling the entire doorway. He looked to have recently bathed. Damp hair clung to his brow, and he was still pulling down a fresh shirt. “Provided he doesn’t go septic,” the man qualified, “he’ll live.”
“Thank God.” Bram sucked in a breath. “Thank God.”
He knew he tossed out that phrase all the time, but this time he meant it. He was really, truly thankful to God. And unsure how he’d ever repay the debt.
“But there was no saving his foot, my lord. The blast had done most of the work already. I just did my best to make it clean.”
“I understand. You did right.”
Bram stared down at the boy’s blood-drained, perspiring face. Fortunately, he looked to have been dosed with enough laudanum to take him beyond the pain. For now. When he woke, Finn would find himself in a vivid, burning hell. That much, Bram had experienced.
Clearing his throat, he introduced Daniels. “He’s a surgeon and a friend of mine. He’ll see to the boy from here.”
Daniels threw back the linen drape from Finn’s leg. Bram winced.
“It’s not pretty, but it ought to heal cleanly,” Daniels said, assessing the stump. “You do good work, Mr. Dawes.”
Dawes nodded his thanks, wiping his hands on a small towel. Bram looked past the man, to the cottage adjacent. A fair-haired woman was sleeping at the table, her head bent over an extended arm.
He walked toward Dawes, giving Daniels some space to examine the boy. “Is that Miss Highwood?”
Dawes shot a glance over his shoulder and exhaled roughly. “Yes.”
“What is she doing here?”
“Honestly, my lord? Damned if I know. But she’s been here all night, and all the screaming and blood in the world couldn’t persuade her to leave. Golden hair and an iron will, that one. Lord Payne’s gone to borrow Keane’s curricle, so he can drive her home.”
“What about Miss Finch? Where is she?”
“Lord Rycliff.” A thin, weak voice called to him. “Is that you?”
“Aye, Finn. It’s me.” Bram hurried back to the table and crouched at the boy’s eye level. “How are you feeling?”
Stupid question.
“S-s-sorry,” the wide-eyed lad scraped out. “My fault. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, no.” Guilt twisted in Bram’s chest. “You’re not to blame, Finn. It was an accident.” An accident that should have never occurred. “Don’t try to talk. There’ll be time enough for that later.”
He reached for the flask of whiskey in his breast pocket, with every intent of gifting it to Finn. The flask had nursed Bram through his own leg injury, and the youth had earned his right to drink like a man. But then he thought better of the gift, considering the absent Mr. Bright’s struggles with liquor. He didn’t want to send the boy down the same troubled path.
He gave Finn a warm pat on the shoulder instead. “I know it’s hell, but you’ll come through it. You’re strong.”
“I’m worried,” Finn said through gritted teeth. “How am I to help Mum and Sally with the shop now?”
“In a hundred ways. We’ll see you fitted with the best false foot possible—no pirate peg leg. You’ll be walking and working again in no time. Or I’ll send you to school, if you like. There are plenty of ways for a man to be useful that don’t involve unloading crates.” Or marching into battle, he thought.
“Cor, school? But I couldn’t accept . . .”
“No arguments, Finn. I’m the lord, and this is my militia. I won’t let it be said my wounded men don’t have an excellent pension.”
“One good thing’s come of it.” With a weak flash of humor, Finn glanced in the direction of his amputated foot. “No one will ever confuse me with Rufus now, will they?”
“No.” A smile warmed Bram’s face. “No, they won’t. And I’ll tell you a secret. The ladies find a wounded soldier hopelessly romantic. They’ll be buzzing after you like honeybees.”
“Suppose they will. Rufus may have two feet, but I’m still the one what danced with Miss Charlotte. Twice.” He broke off, coughing.
Bram took the cup of water Dawes offered and held it to Finn’s lips, helping him lift his head to drink.
“Does my mother know?” the youth asked, reclining again with a wince.
“Yes,” Dawes said. “She was here earlier, during the surgery. But Sally and Rufus had to take her home, she was so overset.”
“I’ll take her word that you’re well and asking for her,” Bram said.
“Tell her to make certain little Daisy don’t bang on my drum.” The lad’s eyes flew open. “Cor. The review. It’s meant to be today, isn’t it?”
“Don’t you worry about that.”
“But how can the men march if I can’t drum?”
“They won’t,” Bram told him. “We’ll cancel the review.” Nothing lost there, really. After the revelation of Sir Lewis’s deceit, he knew the militia never had much purpose, aside from providing fanfare for a doomed cannon’s debut.
“But the review must go on,” Finn said. “Don’t call it off on my account. Everyone’s worked so hard.”
“Yes, but—”
With a grimace of pain, Finn struggled up on his elbow. “If the militia’s found lacking, Miss Finch said the ladies would be called home. They need this place, and my family’s store needs them. We’ve worked too hard to give up now, my lord. All of us . . .” He slumped back to the table, overtaxed by the effort of his speech.
“Rest, Finn.” Bram dragged a hand through his hair. Guilt consumed him. After all their hard work, he didn’t know how to tell the villagers the task had been rather meaningless all along. Just an exercise in bloated pride for a fool man.
Make that two fool men, if he included himself.
From outside the forge, hurried footsteps approached.
“You can’t do this.” That was Thorne’s voice, rough and low.
“Yes I can.” A female voice, drawing closer.
“Damn it, woman. I told you no.”